Great Yarmouth – A museum of bleakness and decay

Living in Great Yarmouth, Norfolk

I visited Great Yarmouth several times recently and hope never to have to return. Where the bleak, brown, hostile sea stops, bleak, hostile depressing streets start, with grim “amusement” arcades on the dilapidated front where it is impossible to imagine deriving any joy or amusement.

The star attraction

The star attraction it seems is a chip shop bang in the centre square which is famous for its…er…chips and you can see depressing white trash society at its most feckless and gormless, feeding the seagulls and pigeons. Actually there seem to be a disproportionate amount of chippers in GY, presumably to provide a staple diet for its ******** inhabitants and for the waves of other obese ****** mutants who seem to descend on the place for some unfathomable reason (perhaps their white trash hell hole towns are even worse) but that seems unfeasible.

Nothing of Beauty

There is absolutely nothing of beauty in this irretrievable dump. No charm, no respite from the endless social and architectural grimness. We made the mistake of wandering along the streets into a different area which I believe the locals call Baghdad (?) where suddenly you realise that you are in not only a different area of the town but several different countries. Haggard, dodgy looking young guys with face tattoos on BMXs go round doing dope deals quite openly, nobody speaks English in the shops, the doorways are full of trash and excrement, the streets smell of urine and the buildings are extra-extra dilapidated and shabby.

How grim is your Postcode?

Weird People

Weird people stagger about or stare at you from alcoves. People shriek and holler in alien dialects from behind first floor blinded dirty windows in crumbling terraced houses. Drunks and junkies slump and stagger. We got the hell out of there back to the safety of ****-central square, where we were able to observe the locals in their shell suits with their pasty unhealthy complexions and yellow teeth snarling at each other, each and every one glued to their phones.


Datyime drinking seems to be the norm here, even early in the morning Wetherspoons was packed with shrieking yokels necking pints and stuffing food down their fat throats. Unbelievable. This place could advertise itself as a museum of damaged, unemployable *****, yobs, fatties, nutters and mutants. Zero culture, zero charm, zero hope of any kind of salvation.